Page 20 of Found in Wild Sage

It’s completely different circumstantially, but eerily close to the dynamic in my last relationship, however long ago it was. We get along. We combine our lives. I think everything’s great but am apparently more oblivious than I ever imagined and discover that what I thought was a relationship on the pathway to a life together is simply a matter of convenience. I just didn’t realize it until it was over.

So, yes. This?

It’ll be a perfect plan. I know what I’m getting into this time—my eyes are open.

If only it doesn’t hollow me out and leave me like a cadaver on a table despite my choice to wade in knowingly.

CHAPTER NINE

Evie

Declan unbuckles Charlie, who is screeching and chirping and wonderfully cheery. I slide out of his very nice SUV and into the warm evening air. The sun is starting its descent. The small, round diamonds circling my finger sparkle in the sunlight, and my heart flips.

He seemed almost embarrassed by having put so much thought into the gift. He doesn’t realize this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn, and it is almost inconceivable how much I like it. It’s irresponsible, for sure.

I shouldn’t even entertain the thought, because I’ve vowed not to give Trevor any extra thoughts beyond what I have to for the sake of the custody trial. But compared to the excuses Trevor gave about not needing a ring to show our love and, “You’d never wear it at work anyway,” and “We’ll get one for the wedding,” this one is even more perfect.

“Ready?” Declan asks, two bags over one shoulder and Charlie sitting high and happy against his other.

Be. Still. My. Heart.

I wonder if I will ever not feel a little earthquake under my feet when I see him holding my baby so comfortably.

Unlikely. Declan is the kind of man who is eye-catchingly handsome whether you know him or not. Add to that the knowledge that he’s a very capable, caring doctor, fastidiously thoughtful and gentle, and frustratingly good, and I’d still be a goner.

Adding him being the sweetest, most tender friend to my son?

It is deadly.

“Yes,” I croak out, then clear my throat. “Absolutely. Lead the way.”

But instead of plowing forward with his focused, steady walk like I see him do on weekday mornings, he holds out a hand.

My lashes flutter, but I quickly take it, stomach tripping all over itself as our fingers slot together and our palms brush.

It would look natural to anyone else. We’re dating. We’re actually engaged. It might even look strange if we weren’t holding hands.

It may look natural, but my insides are a bowl full of Jell-O, all quivery and on the verge of liquefying.

The thing is, I may or may not be mildly obsessed with Declan’s hands. Those hands literally bring healing. They palpate necks feeling lymph nodes, they hold stethoscopes in place, they take pulses and deliver vaccines and offer comfort with difficult diagnoses.

They are strong and always on the dry side thanks to being washed and sanitized constantly. They are big like him, and rough in texture but gentle in touch.

And yes, oh yes, I have dreamed about them on me. Touching me in all the friendly places and all the deeply intimate parts that have nothing to do with an annual exam.

So this confident, casual clutch of our hands threatens to send my head exploding off my neck and out into orbit from overstimulation and sheer, simple pleasure.

Some police officer will ask the Ryan family what happened and poor Declan will have to report that my hand got sweaty right before my head popped off and screeched away like a balloon losing its helium.

Thankfully, Charlie giggles and that brings me back into the moment, and into the rest of my body beyond the points of contact with Declan’s warm skin.

Right as we step inside, I have the realization that we have made no plans about how to deal with his family. We didn’t talk about what this would be like or what I should expect. We didn’t talk about if we should be touchy or keep to ourselves. We didn’t talk about anything, and I want to throw on the emergency brake and beg him for a sidebar.

But it’s too late.

“Ahhh! There they are!” says one voice, right as the storm door swings closed behind us.

“They’re here! They’re here!” Two little girls I recognize from work and as Sam’s soon-to-be daughters race by us, then disappear in the direction of what I assume must be the kitchen.